A year ago today, my husband died.

My Bill, the man I'd been with for over 22 years, the man who fathered my child and knew me better than anybody on the planet suddenly, unexpectedly, mysteriously, in a strange place, died.  Died! It turned me upside down and tore me inside out.

What a year it's been. I was furious. I raged at him. For doing this to me, for dying, for dying now and like this. I cried and despaired. I relived his death all night, night after night, endless looping in my head.

And. But also. So much more:

This year, I felt awe that somebody -- that Bill -- could just up and die like that, so fast, and in a moment everything, the shape of the Universe, could change. And I knew the beauty of the terrible tenuous nature of life and of death.

I felt defiant: Fuck death! Fuck life! I'll do what I want, time is too short to fret.

I overflowed with gratitude. So many generous people gave time, and cooked dinner, negotiated with foreign banks, held me, and listened, laughed with me, loved me, held me up.

I felt terrified and confused. How would I manage? Financially, emotionally, logistically. How could I mother my grieving child when all I could do was barely get through a day?

I grieved full on. And sometimes I was numb and ignored my grief.

Certainly this year I learned my limits and my failings, too. I didn't return heartfelt emails and phone calls, many of them. I turned away many offers of connection and help because they felt too stressful. I ate too much and didn't exercise enough -- and my body shows it. I resorted to sleeping pills sometimes, and sometimes I drank too much wine and brandy. My face is creased. My hairs (well, my roots) are grayer.

This year, I missed my husband. I missed who I was with him. I missed our family. 

Bill's dying challenged everything in me. It called on all my maturity, introspection, parenting skills, self-love, ability to organize, emotional strength. And I got shit done. I held it together: I didn't hide in my room or lose my job or go on a wild spending spree or abandon my daughter or lose my mind -- it could have happened.  I grieved without getting depressed. Grief did me, but it didn't do me in.

This year I didn't die.

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In Jewish tradition, the rules of mourning are very specific: When the year of mourning is over, mourners are expected to return to a fully normal life.

I've spent the last few weeks in stasis, wondering what is "normal" when for my entire adult life, normal was having Bill as my husband, life partner, and co-parent. I know I can't take Bill along, except in memory. Yes, some make the choice to stay married in their hearts, but that's not for me.

And what does "moving on" mean, more than I've already done? Everything is different, because I am different; if he arrived here, magically undead, it wouldn't be the same relationship because I've had this year of grief. Perhaps if I had worn black all year, I could have cast off my Widow's Weeds,  put on red today.  But I already wear red. I have a man in my life, my house is new colors inside and out, I drink green tea instead of coffee, I sold his car.  I've lived, I've moved on, because just living means moving on, whether you want to or not. Mostly, I've wanted to.

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Last night, I tracked the events of Bill's death hour by hour, dreading and sorrowing and wondering how I'd feel when the hour came.

Grief surprises me, even now. Because when the hour of his death came, his one year deathiversary, I felt.... release.

Release! A lifting of the burden of duty, a sense of accomplishment. I did it! All that I needed to do to care for me, for Annie, for all of us this year, as best as I could. I've honored him. I've made it through this year, to this day, and I'm still standing. I've done it well. I know that our deep friendship was the core of our love and marriage. That will never end. And with that, I'm free to simply miss my dear, dear friend.

At this yahrzeit, this first anniversary, I feel clean sorrow.

I'm at peace.